


Sacrosanct

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-05
Updated: 2009-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is the victim of a disturbing ritual and the team helps him recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrosanct

**Author's Note:**

> There is no non-consensual sex in this story, but it does contain disturbing images of forced intimacy and brief physical torture.

"Hello, John." Teyla's voice was sympathetic, but she quickly looked down at her tray when John joined her at the table. That was a gift. Unlike Ronon, who kept staring at him, or Rodney, who started one mangled sentence after another just to stop suddenly and mumble finally, "So, how're things?"

"Fine," John said for maybe the two hundredth time in two days, and focused on eating his oatmeal, conscious of Rodney's right elbow just a little too close to his.

John eased over two inches and added some milk to his bowl.

:::

John thought they would torture him, since that seemed to be the way these things went. Either torture him, or dress him up in golden robes or something and worship him like some kind of god, just because a stone plinth lit up when he approached; just because it sang a song it probably hadn't sung in a thousand years.

There never seemed to be any damned in-between when it came to Pegasus.

The rest of the team had barely escaped, Ronon's stunner useless against hundreds of determined zealots; Teyla's and John's P-90s even less so, since neither of them had wanted to mow the faithful down like cannon-fodder (and John thought of Kent State, and of the Bisho massacre, and Tiananmen Square, and—no.)

John just had to hang on. That was all. Hang on until his team returned in a glory of righteous vengeance, and hopefully with two marine-filled cloaked jumpers, and about a dozen wraith stunners.

Soon.

:::

"Anything else?" Carter asked. "Anyone? No? Well, I suppose I'll see you all tomorrow after Dr. Zelenka has finished preparing his presentation on," she looked down at her laptop, "'Search Array Clusters for the Use of Artificially Normalizing the Ancients' Database.' That'll be great, Dr. Z."

John waited until everyone else had milled together and lined out the door before standing up himself. He was two steps down the stairs when he realized Ronon had hung back and was following.

"Something I can do for you, Chewie?"

"Yeah. We're sparring today, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." They'd talked about it before the mission—some new moves Ronon had learned from Lieutenant Sato and wanted to teach him. "I'll have to take a rain check." They reached the gate room floor and John stopped.

"Rain check?"

"As in, later, Ronon. I have some stuff." John waved his hand vaguely.

Ronon crossed his arms and looked pissed off.

"Seriously, I'll have some free time in a couple of days."

"I'll hold you to it," Ronon said.

John felt Ronon's eyes following him as he walked away.

:::

The pale, brown-haired woman in the red robes kept her eyes on the ground, but she seemed pretty determined.

"You will bathe, Annointed. And then join us here for preparation."

"Preparation for what?" John said. The two burly guys flanking the woman shifted a little closer, and John stepped back and eyed the exit.

"For the Ceremony of Transference. We have waited very long—" she sounded choked up, "for this day. Many generations of Wa'ulha have dreamed we might someday find among our people an Annointed such as you carrying the blessing of _k'a'ani_ inside. But you are the first in hundreds of years."

"Yeah, but, see—I'm not of your people. What if my people want to keep my, uh, k'ani for themselves?"

She raised her eyes and frowned at him. "There is no end to k'a'ani. It will be replenished after you share it with us."

But John had never been very good at sharing, and when they came at him he fought the burly guys as hard as he could. More people came into the room then, adding to the pile-on until Tweedle-Dum got John pinned on the floor, holding him down so Tweedle-Dumber could strip off his clothes. Then they picked him up and dropped him in a giant tub of hot water.

John decided, for expediency's sake, he'd better take care of the bathing part himself.

:::

Carter was the only one who'd read the report who didn't treat him any differently. If John had to pick one person he'd like to be less insane about the whole thing it would have been his boss, so that was kind of cool.

She met with him and Lorne to go over gate schedules and recent inventory results. They were getting low on ammo—Carter laughed a little and said, "You should've seen Caldwell's eyebrows when I told him how many crates he'll be carting this time."

"Did he look a little constipated? He always looks constipated to me."

"John!"

But Lorne laughed, and reached out to punch him in the arm. John jerked over so fast he almost fell out of his chair.

"Missed me," he joked, smiling a little weakly when he saw Lorne's expression. "So," John went on quickly, tugging down the sleeve of his shirt where it had crept up, "it looks like we're going to have to start rationing medical supplies, as well..."

Carter and Lorne both nodded like nothing had happened.

:::

After John wrapped the towel around his waist he asked for his clothes back, but wasn't surprised when Red shook her head. She had the Tweedles drag him over to a padded table, where they pushed him onto it, face up. When he saw them pull out some bindings to tie him down, John freaked and started fighting again.

He came to about thirty seconds later, his brain buzzing from Dum's choke-hold. He was tied hand and foot to the table, and stark naked to boot.

Red was singing something. John recognized the melody from the music the plinth had made, and tried not to roll his eyes. Then Red pulled out what looked an extremely sharp straight blade, and suddenly John wasn't amused anymore.

**Right now would be a really great time for my team to show up.**

**Right now.**

**Guys?**

:::

John leaned on the doorway to the lab, not coming all the way in. Which was normal, because sometimes going into Rodney's lab was like getting trapped in a spiderweb of science-talk and McKay-Zelenka one-upmanship.

And John just really wanted to say hi, because he'd been kind of an asshole not stopping by Rodney's after getting out of the infirmary, or last night, either, once Atlantis was quiet and John knew he could sneak into Rodney's quarters without running into anyone.

Instead, he'd used the LSD to slip over to the jumper bay, where he'd ridden the lift to climb into a jumper stowed on the rack. John had slept just fine with the jumper wrapped around him, relaxed knowing no one could bother him.

It was the kind of morsel of information he was sure Dr. Royce would pounce on with that little superior smirk he had. God, John really hated shrinks, but Royce was worse than most, and he really missed the hell of out Heightmeyer at times like this.

"Hey, Rodney," John said to Rodney's hunched back. He was typing with his right hand while he adjusted the dial on some ancient machine with his left.

Rodney stopped typing but didn't turn around. "So. You decided to grace my lab with your presence."

John deserved that. He really did. Not that he and Rodney were anything but...well, what they _were_, which was plenty, it was good, and John didn't want to screw things up. And after being abducted and all, he knew Rodney probably would've wanted to see him afterward. Check him out. Make sure—well, John wasn't sure what he'd want to make sure of, since except for that one, long cut, which was healing up very nicely thanks to Keller, there was nothing to _see_. Just a ton of tiny stitches. And the hair thing. Okay, that was still weird.

"Sorry. I've been—it's been a little weird."

"It?" Rodney turned around and glared. His blue eyes were bloodshot, and he looked tired. Exhausted. Which wasn't unusual for either of them, but still, John felt his chest contract a little.

"Huh?"

"You said, 'it,' and I'm just wondering, for the sake of argument, what 'it' you're referring to."

"I...I don't—oh, right. _It's_ just been weird being back."

Rodney crossed his arms, then dropped them and took a step forward, chin jutting out. "You were gone for exactly four hours and twenty-two minutes. It was the soonest we could get the gate back up after the malfunction."

"Huh." John made himself shrug. "Seemed like a lot longer."

Rodney's glance sharpened, and John straightened from his slouch. "Okay, well, just checking in. I'll see you later."

Maybe Rodney wasn't any more ready to deal than John was, because he just turned away, saying over his shoulder. "Yes. Later, Colonel."

:::

The Priestess, as the Tweedles called her, spent a damned long time sharpening the blade of the knife. Long enough for John's heart to slow a little and to sink inside himself, just in case.

She'd said he would be 'prepared.' But she hadn't said what that involved.

He found out a few minutes later when Dumber showed up with a bowl and a small wooden paddle. He scooped it in the bowl and started applying this weird goo all over John's chest.

The Priestess appeared at his side, and he almost laughed hysterically when he realized what was going on. She started under his left pec and swiped up carefully, shaving his chest.

"You've got to be kidding me. Jesus Christ! You people are loony-toons."

She didn't look up from what she was doing. The razor was cold, and he shivered with disgust and a little fear, feeling the bindings, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop her. She kept dipping the blade in a bowl of water Dum was holding, cleaning between each swipe, and when she finished his chest and arms, she started down his abdomen.

Thorough. She was being damned thorough, and John didn't like where this was heading. By the time she finished his torso he was sure she would go for his groin next, and he couldn't help pulling at the ties on his wrists and ankles.

"Ow. Fuck!" he said. She'd cut him.

"Please be still, Annointed," the Priestess said, finally speaking.

Dum used a cloth to press on the cut on his belly while the Priestess sharpened her blade. Dumber put the gunk on John's face and neck, and she started shaving him there. He tilted his head back out of necessity to keep from getting nicked, but closed his eyes, not wanting to see her staring, her complete obliviousness to his rage and disgust.

**Freaks freaks freaks** he thought to himself, relieved she wasn't going to try to shave his 'nads with that wicked-looking thing.

It turned out he was wrong.

"Fuck! You assholes!"

She had shaved one of his legs from ankle to the top of his thigh, then stopped long enough to sharpen the blade yet again. John took the opportunity to yank at his bindings, furious, one eye toward the door and one ear hoping for the sound of a jumper.

But no one came. And she kept humming that same stupid song when she came to touch him again, this time lifting his ball sac, putting the cold metal to him there.

He went absolutely still. He was a rock. A stone. But he felt his balls shiver up in dismay, felt his dick trying to shrink away from what was going on. He also felt a little nauseated, so he kept his eyes squeezed shut and tried not to feel it, tried not to think.

Tried not to want to kill them all.

:::

The shooting range was empty this late. John liked it that way—he could focus totally, get into the zen of fire-reload-fire-reload. He decimated two targets, chest and head shots lining up clean and making the black ink disappear. The sweat started to sting in the cut on his chest as he reloaded and started to fire again.

He had ear-protection on, so it was a damned lucky thing he didn't shoot Teyla's head off when she suddenly appeared at his left elbow.

"John."

"Teyla," John said, nodding and holstering his gun. The muzzle was hot; he could feel it like a brand next to his thigh. "What can I do for you this late?"

"Ronon said you missed sparring practice."

"Yeah. Little busy with reports," John said, lying easily. He hadn't gone to his office yet, because that would be the first place people would look for him.

He'd actually spent the rest of the day down in the sub-bay trying to fix the little submarine there. He'd found the submersible not long after they got back from the underwater drilling station. It was tiny, barely large enough for two people. John wanted to take Rodney in it and go for an underwater tour of Atlantis.

Not out into the ocean. He didn't want to make Rodney panic about whales. And maybe Rodney would refuse to go anyway because of the whole sunken jumper thing—John could hardly blame him—but John wanted to. He wanted to see his city from underwater.

But the stupid sub needed more than John's limited expertise with Ancient devices.

He didn't realize he'd drifted into silence until Teyla touched his arm—a light touch, something she'd done before dozens of times, but for some reason it made John practically jump out of his skin, and he found himself eight feet away, hand clenching on the butt of his gun.

He hadn't drawn it. That was something, at least. But not much, considering the look on Teyla's face.

"John, I—"

"Sorry, you, uh, startled me."

"You seem distracted, yes."

"It's been a rough couple of days."

"That it has."

"So, I'm going to hit the sack. Get some rest." Lie awake and stare at the shifting shadows of Atlantis' lights reflected against the waves. Listen to Johnny Cash on his iPod and play DS Lite until his eyes got heavy and itched with the need for sleep.

Try not to feel phantom hands touching, touching—

"Good night, John," he heard Teyla say, but John was already out the door.

:::

Rodney was waiting for him in his quarters. John should have expected it; if his brain had been working half a damn the last two days, he would have.

"Hey," John said. He waved a hand and went over to his desk, where he leaned to push off his boots. "I'm kind of beat, Rodney."

"I suppose you want me to leave."

John wanted to say yes. Because all he wanted to do was put on his favorite panda T-shirt and strip down to his boxers and crawl into bed. But he couldn't do that because Rodney would see his arms and legs, weirdly soft and naked without any hair on them, and he'd want to crawl in right next to John, and maybe have sex, and John wasn't good with that right now.

But the look on Rodney's face—mouth already turning down with the hurt he was expecting—John couldn't stand that either.

He gave Rodney one helpless look of warning, knowing it was pointless, and said, "Don't freak, okay?" Then he opened his long-sleeved shirt, the one he'd kept zipped up to the top all day hoping no one would notice.

He pulled it off and waited.

Rodney just stared, and a frown tightened between his eyebrows. "Did you think I didn't know?" He almost sounded amused, except his voice was too flat. "Did you think I'd read the report and see 'they gave me a ritualistic shaving' and not notice that, gee, there's no hair on your hands? On your wrists? Seriously, John."

She'd done that. She'd shaved his knuckles, the backs of his hands, edging the blade carefully around the bones of his wrists.

The moment Rodney stood up from the bed, John was already backing away. His butt hid the edge of the desk and he said, "Don't. I mean it."

Because he couldn't bear that—to feel Rodney's curious touch on his naked skin.

Rodney stopped and crossed his arms, his shoulders bulging with tension.

"I think it's time you told me what didn't make it into the report."

:::

Tweedle-Dum had a grip John couldn't believe, and he really had a talent for making a guy's shoulder feel like it was being dislocated. For a gloriously Annointed One John was feeling pretty underappreciated.

Until they brought him to the temple. He took one look at the altar and the crowd, and his stomach dropped down to his feet.

The Priestess starting singing words finally, to the same damned tune she'd been humming. They were in Ancient, or some garbled approximation of it, and John could give a shit what she was saying because the room was filled with crazy zealots, all turning to stare at his skinny, naked self, and if it hadn't been for the pressure of Dum's hand pushing John's wrist halfway up his back, he would have tried to make a run for it.

And still, his team didn't come. They'd been having sporadic problems with the gate. It was the only explanation for why they hadn't stormed in already with troops bearing stunners.

A skinny white guy was standing beside the altar, a High Priest, John guessed, and he was holding a hell of a big knife. The altar lit up as soon as Dum pushed John within ten feet of it, and the entire crowd gave a hushed, blissed out moan that raised the hair on the back of John's neck.

At least they hadn't shaved his head, John thought semi-hysterically, and then two more burly guys showed up and together they wrestled John onto the altar.

No ropes. They held him down with hands—too many hands—and he choked out curses, inviting them all to fuck themselves with various garden implements. Then the High Priest leaned over him and placed the edge of the blade right above John's left nipple.

The entire room went dead silent.

"Today we have been blessed once again by the Ancestors, who return to us in the form of the Annointed. Praise the Ancestors!"

"Praise them" the crowd roared.

"On this holy day the essence will be Transferred. On this day we will drink of the k'a'ani_ that is our blood-right!" _

John gasped as the Priest drew the knife across his chest. The cut stung, and John welcomed the pain, because it meant the wound wasn't dangerously deep. But it still hurt like a son of a bitch.

The light from underneath him suddenly glowed deeper blue, and the crowd moaned again, a sick sound.

He called them all motherfuckers, but it was like he wasn't even there—nothing he said made any impact. The Priest reached down and started to rub the blood over John's chest, pushing painfully at the wound to make him bleed more, until he was painted with it—he could feel blood all over his chest and shoulders and stomach, sticky and cooling.

He didn't think of Rodney. He didn't let himself think about Rodney's warm, confident hands; Rodney's mouth on his; Rodney teasing him while they playfully tangled on John's narrow bed.

Not Rodney. Not here. Just this asshole Priest touching him, hands red with John's blood.

The light from the altar flared even higher, glancing eerily against the razored planes of the High Priest's pale cheeks. The Priestess had joined in and was rubbing blood onto his thighs, coating his dick and balls, and he shouted at them and strugged against the hard hands holding his arms and legs.

And then the Priest said, "Come forth and drink of the k'a'ani_." _

And every one of those crazy bastards did.

:::

When they were done with him, he was clean again, but filthy. So goddamned filthy. They let him up and he stumbled back to the preparation room, flanked by Dum and Dumber, and washed himself by the side of the tub.

By the time Lorne arrived with three jumpers full of marines, John was dressed and waiting.

:::

"They shaved me. All over. They cut me and rubbed my blood all over me. Then the worshipers all came up and...licked it off me."

"Oh my God." It could almost be funny, the way Rodney's face went dead white; funny, because Rodney was the kind of guy to turn bright pink when he was angry. But not funny at all, because Rodney's hands had closed into fists, and he swayed suddenly, like he was going to fall over.

John moved toward him, hands out to catch him, but Rodney stumbled away looking a little horrified.

Well. Big surprise.

"No. No, John—" Then Rodney was reaching out to grip his shoulders, and John didn't pull away because, _Jesus_, Rodney's hands were warm and familiar, like something he'd forgotten about and had to remember.

"You don't have to—" John said, his teeth clenching around the words. But then Rodney's arms went around him, and John automatically leaned into Rodney's solid warmth.

"Shut up. Just, _please_ let me—" Rodney's hands met at the center of John's back. The soft fabric of Rodney's shirt felt strange against John's hairless skin, and he shuddered a little at the reminder. Rodney's arms just went tighter.

"It's okay." Weird. Rodney's voice was shaking, and his hand came up and petted over the back of John's neck.

"I'm fine," John said, his mouth muffled against Rodney's shoulder. And he was, really—who cared if he'd showered six times in the past two days against Keller's direct advice to keep his stitches dry?

Who cared if John felt like he pretty much never wanted anyone else to touch him, ever again?

Well, Rodney, obviously. Rodney cared. And that was fine, too. He didn't mind if Rodney touched him. John tried to tell him as much, in halting, stupid words, but Rodney told him to shut up, and turned him to gently nudge him over to his bed.

"You need sleep. You look like my cat after a night out."

Yeah, sleep sounded good. It sounded perfect, actually.

Rodney went over to John's footlocker and brought out his panda T-shirt and handed it to him. Like he _knew_.

John shrugged it on, slipping it carefully past his sutures. It felt good, wearing his favorite shirt again. It was nice and soft. Clean. He stripped off his pants and socks and climbed under the covers. Rodney was in the bathroom—probably using that spare toothbrush he pretended he hadn't left on purpose.

John palmed the lights off as soon as Rodney made it to the foot of the bed. But he lifted the covers, making room, and Rodney slid in next to him.

They weren't touching except at knee and elbow. But John could feel Rodney's warmth next to him. Nothing like the cold, sick, tightness in his gut lying there helpless while they made hungry sounds and—

John rolled to the side and pulled Rodney into his arms. With a startled noise, Rodney turned over and shifted until he fit perfectly.

"This is good," John said, then lower, "I'm really glad you're here." And he was. He really was.

He wasn't sure how long Rodney would be, though, if it turned out John was more fucked in the head than even Royce could fix. Maybe Rodney would just throw his hands up and give up on him.

But John was pretty sure he wouldn't.


End file.
